


Untitled

by kaiz



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-28
Updated: 2004-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pleasures of having a younger lover who happens to be Severus Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

He never asks about your day, he never asks how you are feeling. He refuses to discuss the students or the war when in your quarters; 'idle chit-chat' has never been his way.

Instead, once you are alone, he will place a glass of something amber and smooth, tasting of peat in your hand. Or he will stand behind you, silently, one hand round your waist, the other releasing the pins in your hair, as his lips trace the curve of your nape. Sometimes, he will do both.

Always, and in any case, your heart beats faster for his attentions. The cold, thin blood in your veins heats and thickens, and while the black heat of his gaze is upon you, or his lips are murmuring your name, you can remember what it is to feel again.

He is an adept at the unspoken word. He can read every moment of your day in the set of your shoulders, the cadence of your heels against the flagstones, the frown or smile that you forget to hide. That he learned those skills as a child, dodging blows from his drunken father or bullies in the school-yards--that you played your own unwitting role in nurturing those talents--is tragic perhaps. But their application on your behalf, oh!

That he knows precisely when to cajole, or to snipe, or to step back and give you space, that he knows the exact pressure needed, of his fingers or lips, along your spine, the curve of your breast, your inner thigh that will coax forth a gasp or a sigh! Then, tragic or not, you will not deny his virtuosity.

You don't care that it is scandalous, that your colleagues _tsk-tsk_ when your back is turned. You don't care that he's young enough to be your son. You don't care one whit that Albus disapproves.

The light and heat that you create together in the intimacy of your private quarters--whether in bed or over a chessboard or a bottle of Glenlivet after a long day--needs no witness or critic or judge.

And your own son is long dead now, as is your husband.

You are old, tired and he is young, burning with rage, passion, and lust. He is _here_ wanting you, reminding you why tomorrow matters, proving that the world still holds things worth living--and not merely dying--for.


End file.
